The Poems of Emma Lazarus Volume I Part 24

III.

What do the sea-nymphs in that coral cave?

With wondering eyes their supple forms they bend O'er something rarely beautiful. They lend Their lithe white arms, and through the golden wave They lift it tenderly. Oh blinding sight!

A naked, radiant G.o.ddess tranced in sleep, Full-limbed, voluptuous, 'neath the mantling sweep Of auburn locks that kiss her ankles white!

Upward they bear her, chanting low and sweet: The clinging waters part before their way, Jewels of flame are dancing 'neath their feet.

Up in the suns.h.i.+ne, in soft foam, they lay Their precious burden, and return forlorn.

Oh, bliss! oh, anguis.h.!.+ Mortals, LOVE is born!

IV.

Hark! from unfathomable deeps a dirge Swells sobbing through the melancholy air: Where Love has entered, Death is also there.

The wail outrings the chafed, tumultuous surge; Ocean and earth, the illimitable skies, Prolong one note, a mourning for the dead, The cry of souls not to be comforted.

What piercing music! Funeral visions rise, And send the hot tears raining down our cheek.

We see the silent grave upon the hill With its lone lilac-bush. O heart, be still!

She will not rise, she will not stir nor speak.

Surely, the unreturning dead are blest.

Ring on, sweet dirge, and knell us to our rest!

V.

Upon the silver beach the undines dance With interlinking arms and flying hair; Like polished marble gleam their limbs left bare; Upon their virgin rites pale moonbeams glance.

Softer the music! for their foam-bright feet Print not the moist floor where they trip their round: Affrighted they will scatter at a sound, Leap in their cool sea-chambers, nimbly fleet, And we shall doubt that we have ever seen, While our sane eyes behold stray wreaths of mist, Shot with faint colors by the moon-rays kissed, Floating snow-soft, snow-white, where these had been.

Already, look! the wave-washed sands are bare, And mocking laughter ripples through the air.

Epilogue.

Forth in the sunlit, rain-bathed air we stepped, Sweet with the dripping gra.s.s and flowering vine, And saw through irised clouds the pale sun s.h.i.+ne.

Back o'er the hills the rain-mist slowly crept Like a transparent curtain's slivery sheen; And fronting us the painted bow was arched, Whereunder the majestic cloud-shapes marched: In the wet, yellow light the dazzling green Of lawn and bush and tree seemed stained with blue.

Our hearts o'erflowed with peace. With smiles we spake Of partings in the past, of courage new, Of high achievement, of the dreams that make A wonder and a glory of our days, And all life's music but a hymn of praise.

LONG ISLAND SOUND.

I see it as it looked one afternoon In August,--by a fresh soft breeze o'erblown.

The swiftness of the tide, the light thereon, A far-off sail, white as a crescent moon.

The s.h.i.+ning waters with pale currents strewn, The quiet fis.h.i.+ng smacks, the Eastern cove, The semi-circle of its dark, green grove.

The luminous gra.s.ses, and the merry sun In the grave sky; the sparkle far and wide, Laughter of unseen children, cheerful chirp Of crickets, and low lisp of rippling tide, Light summer clouds fantastical as sleep Changing unnoted while I gazed thereon.

All these fair sounds and sights I made my own.

DESTINY.

1856.

Paris, from throats of iron, silver, bra.s.s, Joy-thundering cannon, blent with chiming bells, And martial strains, the full-voiced paean swells.

The air is starred with flags, the chanted ma.s.s Throngs all the churches, yet the broad streets swarm With glad-eyed groups who chatter, laugh, and pa.s.s, In holiday confusion, cla.s.s with cla.s.s, And over all the spring, the sun-floods warm!

In the Imperial palace that March morn, The beautiful young mother lay and smiled; For by her side just breathed the Prince, her child, Heir to an empire, to the purple born, Crowned with the t.i.tan's name that stirs the heart Like a blown clarion--one more Bonaparte.

1879.

Born to the purple, lying stark and dead, Transfixed with poisoned spears, beneath the sun Of brazen Africa! Thy grave is one, Fore-fated youth (on whom were visited Follies and sins not thine), whereat the world, Heartless howe'er it be, will pause to sing A dirge, to breathe a sigh, a wreath to fling Of rosemary and rue with bay-leaves curled.

Enmeshed in toils ambitious, not thine own, Immortal, loved boy-Prince, thou tak'st thy stand With early doomed Don Carlos, hand in hand With mild-browed Arthur, Geoffrey's murdered son.

Louis the Dauphin lifts his thorn-ringed head, And welcomes thee, his brother, 'mongst the dead.

FROM ONE AUGUR TO ANOTHER.

So, Calchas, on the sacred Palatine, Thou thought of Mopsus, and o'er wastes of sea A flower brought your message. I divine (Through my deep art) the kindly mockery That played about your lips and in your eyes, Plucking the frail leaf, while you dreamed of home.

Thanks for the silent greeting! I shall prize, Beyond June's rose, the scentless flower of Rome.

All the Campagna spreads before my sight, The mouldering wall, the Caesars' tombs unwreathed, Rome and the Tiber, and the yellow light, Wherein the honey-colored blossom breathed.

But most I thank it--egoists that we be!

For proving then and there you thought of me.

THE CRANES OF IBYCUS.

There was a man who watched the river flow Past the huge town, one gray November day.

Round him in narrow high-piled streets at play The boys made merry as they saw him go, Murmuring half-loud, with eyes upon the stream, The immortal screed he held within his hand.

For he was walking in an April land With Faust and Helen. Shadowy as a dream Was the prose-world, the river and the town.

Wild joy possessed him; through enchanted skies He saw the cranes of Ibycus swoop down.

He closed the page, he lifted up his eyes, Lo--a black line of birds in wavering thread Bore him the greetings of the deathless dead!